


March 2011, Present Day, Part II

by areyoumiserableyet



Series: Occupy Love [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Political AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Smut, in chapter 4, mild violence, occupy wall street au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 20:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: In which Combeferre is punched in the face and Jehan has a choice to make.
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Feuilly/Montparnasse, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Occupy Love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/813696
Kudos: 13





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Mild Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 2011, Present Day  
6 Months Before Occupy  
Combeferre and Jehan

The minute Combeferre steps out of his Organic Chem lab, he pulls out his phone and hits speed dial number one. He'd been fidgety and unable to pay attention all week, all due to a certain black-haired beauty worming her way into the front of his mind. It had been a week since his party and he desperately needed to know what the hell it was that happened between him and Eponine out on that rooftop. Fortunately, he knew just the man to talk to. Combeferre is good at a lot of things, after all, but matters of the heart is not one of them. Courfeyrac on the other hand-

  
“Combeferre! My darling! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  
“Courf, are you busy right now? Let’s get lunch.”

  
“Well, I was planning on spending my lunch lounging artfully against the nearest building until a high-fashion photographer came by to sweep me away into my inevitable career as a supermodel, but I suppose I could spare an hour or so to chat with my dearest friend.”

  
“You know if a man comes up to you and says he'd love to 'get you behind his lens,' it's innuendo one-hundred percent of the time,” Combeferre replies, smiling in spite of himself.

  
“You say that like I'd be disappointed with the prospect,” Courfeyrac says, his voice full of laughter. “Usual spot in ten. Ciao!”

  
“You're Mexican!” Combeferre laughs, but Courfeyrac has already hung up.

  
Ten minutes later, Combeferre is waiting in February’s, a pub a few blocks away from campus. The food is decent and the drinks are cheap, so it is often crawling with university students. However, no one in their group of friends besides Combeferre and Courfeyrac frequented the place. Almost every inch of free space is covered in writings and doodles of customers-past, something Joly attributes to the “covering up” of the pub's questionable cleanliness – so it’s more or less their spot and their spot only.

  
Combeferre has already put in their order – two of February's famous Fruit-Punch Beers and a large order of cheese fries – when Courfeyrac arrives, sincerely looking like he just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Though he often joked about it, a career as a model honestly wouldn't be far off if Courfeyrac wasn't intent on making films.

  
“Extra sour cream?” Courfeyrac asks by way of greeting, sliding into the booth across from Combeferre. He unwinds a long, blue scarf from around his neck and using the shiny, metal napkin holder on the table as a mirror, fluffs his wind-swept hair.

  
“Yes, Courf, I ordered you extra sour cream. Nice to see you too, by the way.”

  
Apparently satisfied with the state of his coif, Courfeyrac looks up at Combeferre and beams. “Damn, it _is_ nice to see you. You're looking absolutely sinful today,” he says, and Combeferre's feels himself get hot with embarrassment. He’s wearing an outfit Courf himself had gotten him, a blue and white striped cotton t-shirt and a casual white blazer over the top. And of course Courf would notice the extra effort he'd put into his appearance that morning. “Don't tell me you got all dolled-up for little ol' me?”

  
“Oh, shut up,” Combeferre replies, just as their waitress approaches the table with their cheese fries and beer. They both eat and drink as Courfeyrac rambles from topic to topic until finally he seems to remember Combeferre asked him there for a reason. “Enough about me – as fabulous as a topic that is – what did you need to talk about?”

  
“Oh, it’s nothing terribly important, I just – uh – needed your advice on something,” Combeferre mutters, already regretting this decision. “Someone,” he amends, ripping off the band-aid, so to speak.

  
Courfeyrac gasps, clutching his chest dramatically as he swallows down the rest of the cheese fries in his mouth. “Can it be?” he asks no one in particular as Combeferre hides his face in his hands. “My oldest and closest friend has blossomed from a shy little caterpillar into a tiny baby bird ready to spread its wings and soar into the world of love!”

  
“That doesn’t even make sen-”

  
“Who is it? I must know immediately!” Courfeyrac all but yells. “Is it your Medical Terminology professor because if so Bahorel owes me fifty bucks. I knew you spent way too much time in her office for it to be 'merely business.'”

  
“What? No! Where did that even–”

  
“Then who?!”

  
“It’s Eponine…”

Almost instantly Courfeyrac’s demeanor changes as he sets his face into a scowl. He takes a sip of his beer and Combeferre can tell that he’s switched over to serious-Courf.

  
“Eponine? Tell me more.”

  
“Well, I mean, I always thought she was into Marius-“

  
“Totally, everyone can see that.”

  
“But, at my party last week we went onto the roof together and, I don’t know, Courf, something…clicked.”

  
“Have you talked to her?”

  
“Not yet, I haven’t seen her and besides, I wanted to get your advice.”

  
“Well,” Courfeyrac begins, stuffing a few cheese fries into his mouth. He pauses while he chews, surveying the pub. Next to them, a couple sits together, each on their separate phones and pointedly ignoring one another. Their server is at the register, punching in orders and printing receipts and looking slightly like she hates her job.

  
“Well?” he finally asks, the silence too much to bear. And eerie, given it’s Courfeyrac he is talking to.

  
“My advice is to tread carefully. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  
“So, you don’t think there could be anything between us?”

  
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, just...you know, be careful. For me,” he adds, smiling until his eyes crinkle at the corners.

  
“Do you think...I don’t know...do you think Jehan could put out some feelers?”

  
“Jehan is a locked vault when it comes to those guys,” Courfeyrac says, stuffing the last couple of fries into his mouth. “I think you should just talk to her.”

  
“Ugh I know. Alright, I will. Thanks, Courf.” The two of them finish their second beers before gathering their things and heading their separate ways. Combeferre had to admit he was disappointed. If Courfeyrac, arguably one of the most excitable people Combeferre had ever met, had such a… mellow reaction to the idea of he and Eponine together then it was most likely not meant to be. Still, the idea had nestled itself in the deepest recesses of Combeferre’s mind and there was no way he would be able to focus on anything of importance until the matter was resolved. He swore to talk to Eponine personally as soon as possible and figure out what she was thinking once and for all.

  
‘As soon as possible’ turns out to be a lot sooner than expected as just then, Combeferre sees Eponine across the street, talking animatedly on her phone. Combeferre runs over, paying far too little attention to the cars speeding by and laying on their horns. “Eponine!” he calls as loudly as he can over the traffic. It works, because a second later Eponine turns, squinting in the sunlight.

  
“Hey Ferre!” she calls, laughing a little as Combeferre dodges one final cab before ending safely on the sidewalk. “Where’s the fire, pal?”

  
“I just- ” Combeferre stops to catch his breath as Eponine looks on in amusement. “I, just, uh, wanted to catch up with you...to, uh...tell you I liked your hair cut.” This was true - Combeferre did like her haircut. It shows off her face, the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks, giving her a softness that’s isn’t always easy to see past the sharp set of her shoulders and the don’t-fuck-with-me attitude.

  
Eponine raises an eyebrow. “Well, thanks Ferre. Was that all?”

  
“Yeah, well, I meant to tell you the other night but I didn’t...get around to it.”

  
“Oh? Oh...look – is this about the roof?” Combeferre, unsure of what to say, just nods. “I’ve been wanting to talk too. I’m real sorry about that. I was just…really, really drunk and being crazy so I hope we can forget me acting so weird.”

  
Combeferre pauses, his mouth hanging open stupidly as he stares at Eponine, unsure of what to say. “Yeah! Yeah, totally! Same here – really drunk – _so crazy_,” he finally manages amidst his forced laughter. His heart is pounding in his chest, from the run or the conversation he isn’t sure.

Eponine laughs, that light and breezy laugh that makes her look years younger, and reaches out to place her fingertips on Combeferre’s forearm. His skin ignites at the touch. “So we’re cool, right?”

  
“Yes, we are definitely cool.” Combeferre is trying and failing to keep his face neutral. “So,” he adds, turning on the cool. “What are you up to?”

  
“I have some errands to run and then I was going to see Musichetta. Actually...” Eponine trails off, looking around and past Combeferre’s shoulder as if making sure no one can overhear. “What are you doing right now?”


	2. Two

“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” Jehan mutters to himself, as he scratches the inside of his palm. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two-”

“Guess who?!” Jehan jumps violently as two hands cover his eyes from behind. “Oh, I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice - Courfeyrac’s - says, as the boy in question appears in front of Jehan. He is sitting in the library at their table - the one Jehan was sitting at when he first met Courfeyrac. He’d been there for a few hours, trying to stay calm. That’s what the library does for him - helps him stay calm when the thoughts are becoming too much to handle. It’s one of the only places where he feels like he can relax. Things are neat in libraries. Orderly. And quiet. So, so quiet.

“It’s okay,” Jehan says, his voice wavering. “I just didn’t-”

“I need to go return some books,” Courfeyrac interrupts with a bright smile. He hitches his bag over his shoulder and stands, giving Jehan a kiss on the cheek before walking toward the library’s front desk. Jehan sighs gratefully, closing his eyes so he can begin his count over. He reaches his number - 37 - before Courfeyrac returns and he keeps his eyes closed for a few moments longer.

_Everything’s going to be okay_, he thinks. _No one is going to die today_.

Courfeyrac reappears after a few minutes, and Jehan smiles when he sees him. He’s looking heavenly in a floral button-up and some tight black jeans, and his hair is falling in his eyes. There is a flush high on his cheeks and Jehan can see red lines on one side of his face where he was obviously sleeping in class, temporary indentations left in his skin. “I wasn't expecting to see you until tonight,” Courfeyrac says, reaching over and taking one of Jehan’s hands in his own as he sits in the seat nearest him. He brings Jehan’s hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles softly.

“Well it makes sense why _I_ am at the library,” Jehan teases, giving Courfeyrac’s hand a small squeeze. “So the real question is what are you doing here?”

Courfeyrac laughs easily, releasing Jehan’s hand and rocking back in his chair to place his feet on top of the table. “I just had lunch with Ferre and now I'm supposed to be meeting-”

“So I've been thinking,” Enjolras says, plopping his bag on the table and pushing his hair away from his face. Jehan and Courfeyrac share a small, amused look that makes Courfeyrac laugh out loud. “What?” Enjolras asks, his brows pulled close together as he looks back and forth between Courfeyrac and Jehan.

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You've been thinking…”

“Right, so, you all remember those protests in Egypt last month?”

“Course,” Courfeyrac replies, moving his arm to rest it on the chair behind Jehan’s shoulders.

“We need that to happen here. In the U.S.,” Enjolras says excitedly, the thought of revolution igniting a fire inside of him that was both overwhelming and contagious. “We need our own Tahrir.”

“Enjolras, hundreds and hundreds of people died,” Jehan says, glancing over at Courfeyrac in attempt to gauge his response to what Enjolras was saying.

“I obviously know that,” Enjolras replies in a huff. “Anything we attempt would be peaceful. I'm just saying, those people fought for what they believed in. They really made a change - actual, substantial change - that will vastly improve the state of their nation. The _people _did that. _They_ decided they'd had enough, and _they_ did something about it. And it worked.”

“I mean, you're right - their president resigned,” Courfeyrac says thoughtfully. Jehan can tell he's becoming interested, and he smiles to himself as he watches his boyfriend chew on his bottom lip, leaving it red and full. Courfeyrac loves these kinds of conversations, loves to imagine a world where ‘better’ is possible. It's a brilliant thing to watch - him, Enjolras, and Combeferre together. They talk so often of regular people having the power to change the world, but they're wrong. Regular people don't change the world, extraordinary people do. And Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre are extraordinary people. Jehan finds it a little dizzying, really. They speak so beautifully and feel so deeply it's nearly impossible not to let it all consume you as well.

“I just think, if we don't try something big before Combeferre moves to Baltimore and you move to LA-”

“Enj!”

Jehan’s stomach drops what feels like several feet inside his body. Courfeyrac’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head as he stares at Enjolras, refusing to look at Jehan. Out of the corner of his eye, Jehan can see Enjolras frozen, his jaw clenched tightly as he looks down at the table in front of him. It takes several moments before Jehan finds his voice again to speak, and when he does it comes out sounding small. “You-you're moving?” he asks, he can feel himself getting worked up and he wants to stop. For once in his life he wants to face things head on and not let fear consume him. “To California?”

“I'm going to-” Enjolras begins, scooting his chair back from the table to stand. “I'm sorry. To both of you.” He walks away quickly, his shoulders a tight line and his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Jehan, I-”

“When were you planning on telling me?”

“Jehan-”

“Answer my question please.” The fear is bubbling up inside Jehan, leaving his skin clammy and his breathing uneven. He’s trying to stay calm, trying to keep the thoughts at bay, _trying_.

_He's going to leave me. I'm going to be all alone. What if his plane crashes? Oh god, his plane is going to crash. He’s going to leave me. He can't go to California. His plane is going to crash. What happens if his plane crashes? I'm going to be alone. Something bad is going to happen, something bad is going to happen, something bad is_-

“Honey, I was going to tell you when I had made my decision. I just-I wanted to be sure before I said anything to you. I didn’t want you to worry. I wanted to be sure.”

There is desperation in Courfeyrac’s eyes, begging Jehan to understand but he just can’t. His mind is moving 100 miles per hour and he’s starting to panic. He squeezes his eyes shut. Practices his breathings. “And are you?” he asks. He can’t seem to make his voice above a whisper. “Sure, I mean?”

Jehan hears Courfeyrac inhale deeply, and he opens his eyes, turning to look at the man he loves. He opens his mouth to answer, closes it again.

_Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god_-

“Yeah,” he finally says, his voice breaking. “I’m pretty sure.”

Everything stops. In Jehan’s head, for the first time in...well, for the first time, everything stops. All he can hear is a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he packs away his belongings and pushes his chair out. Courfeyrac is scrambling, Jehan is semi-aware of this. He’s scrambling, trying to get Jehan to go somewhere with him - t_o talk, to figure this out, please_ \- but Jehan doesn’t hear it. It’s only the ringing as he slowly walks out of the library, leaving Courfeyrac at the table, his head in his hands.

Jehan feels oddly peaceful. He isn’t panicking, not anymore. He isn’t worrying, not anymore. The thoughts are...gone. Sure, the ringing makes it to where he can’t hear anyone or anything else. But maybe that’s better than the alternative? Even if it means being alone. Forever.

“Excuse me!” Jehan is jolted out of whatever state he was in all too quickly as a man runs into him, shoving Jehan aside roughly. Suddenly, it’s all back - everything is back - and it’s all too much. There are people everywhere talking, yelling, laughing. There are cars and buses and horns and it’s too much. The thoughts, they’re too much. Jehan can feel himself start crying, but he’s overstimulated, overwhelmed with everything. He turns around to go back into the library - his safe space - and runs right into Courfeyrac’s chest.

His other safe space.

“It’s okay, baby,” Courfeyrac whispers in his ear, his arms wrapped tightly around Jehan. “Everything is going to be okay.” Jehan looks up at Courfeyrac, his eyes filled with tears. The thoughts, they don’t stop. The panic doesn’t stop just because his love touches him, whispers, soothes. Courfeyrac isn’t a cure - Jehan knows that. But Courfeyrac makes the everything seem a little less impossible.

Courfeyrac smiles softly, resting his forehead against Jehan’s. “Let’s get you home.”


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild Violence

Combeferre follows Eponine for what feels like 8,000 blocks before they stop at a seedy looking bar somewhere between the Lower East Side and Chinatown.

“Okay, are you ready?” Eponine asks, sounding a little breathless.

“Um, ready for what, exactly?” Combeferre asks warily.

Eponine spins around to look at Combeferre, her brow furrowed. “Why do you always look so put together?” she wonders aloud, her tone implying that this is a bad thing. “Take off the blazer.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you look like a rich college student,” Eponine says, and Combeferre quirks his eyebrow at her. “I’m aware that you are, in fact, a rich college student, but in there I need you to be my tough, dangerous boyfriend.”

Combeferre sputters, his face becoming hot almost immediately. “Excuse me?”

“Look, Ferre,” Eponine says, her voice sounding different than before - softer, young. “I need to go in there because I need to talk to Montparnasse. But every time I’m here the gross ass dudes won’t leave me alone. I was hoping you could…you know like at the Musain...I don’t know...just…” she trails off then, looking up at Combeferre, almost pleading for him to get it so she can stop talking.

_Can stop feeling vulnerable_, Combeferre thinks.

“Okay, okay,” Combeferre says, reaching out for Eponine’s hand. He stops himself before he can link his fingers through hers, wondering what the hell has gotten into himself lately. Eponine clears her throat, having definitely seen Combeferre’s attempt and pretending she hadn’t. “I, uh, I can do that - I can pretend to be your boyfriend.”

Eponine's entire body sags with relief. She quickly recovers, however, saying, “Great. Now give me your blazer.” Combeferre hands over the blazer, and Eponine quickly throws the jacket over her shoulders and slides her arms through the sleeves. It’s entirely too big and the sleeves are entirely too long, falling over her hands in a way that makes Combeferre swallow hard. Without a word, he reaches forward and rolls up the sleeves for her, reveling in the way Eponine looks wearing his clothes - trying to ignore the way this makes him feel.

“Thanks,” she mutters sweetly, giving him a wink. She spins on her heel and marches into the bar, Combeferre following close behind.

The bar is small and oddly crowded for a Wednesday afternoon. As they walk through the doorway, a bright stream of light filters through the dark interior, causing some patrons to squint over at them from their barstools. The door shuts loud and resolute behind them, and as his eyes adjust, Combeferre looks around to see everyone in the bar looking back. He moves even closer to Eponine, following her as she moves toward the bar, nodding at some of the bar’s occupants as she passes.

Inside, the air is heavy with cigarette smoke and an almost sticky feeling from the sweat and booze that seems to cover everything. Combeferre tries to keep his features stoic. _Joly would fall over dead in this place_, he thinks.

“Eponine,” the bartender grunts, nodding once in their direction. He is a large man with meaty hands covered in dark hair and golden rings. His eyes slide over to Combeferre’s, and he lifts his chin in response, hoping that would be enough and not really trusting his voice at the moment. Luckily, the man mirrors his greeting, and Eponine speaks up, saying, “Hey there, Gueulemer. Mont around?”

The man doesn’t answer right away, shuffling a few feet away and returning with two shot glasses, which he fills to the brim with what appears to be vodka. Eponine reaches out and grabs one of the shots, downing it quickly before setting it back onto the bar, the glass making a dull tink. She looks over her shoulder at Combeferre, raising her eyebrows expectantly. Combeferre clears his throat before taking the other shot, the vodka immediately burning his throat and flooding warmth through his chest. It takes everything in him not to cough at the feeling.

“He’s in the back,” the man mutters before walking to the opposite end of the bar to serve other customers. Before Combeferre can begin to wrap his head around that weird exchange, Eponine is on the move again, taking his hand and pulling him along. They have to squeeze by people as they head toward the back, the bar feeling smaller and dirtier by the second. At one point, Combeferre notices some of the men looking at Eponine in a way he does not like at all. They look possessive and creepy, and Combeferre feels a wave of protectiveness wash over him. Before he can react, though, Eponine is stopping, causing Combeferre to run into her back. “Grab my ass,” she hisses through her teeth, her mouth smiling.

“What?”

“Grab my ass,” she repeats and turns back around before Combeferre can say anything else. Combeferre is feeling hot all over and beginning to sweat. He is really not sure what is going on with his life these days, but he thinks, _to hell with it,_ and hurries to catch up to where Eponine is a few paces ahead of him. He reaches out and does as he was told, ignoring the way it makes his body feel hot and prickly all over. She jumps slightly, as if pleasantly surprised, and throws a smirk over her shoulder. When Combeferre woke up this morning, he really didn’t think he’d spend part of his day with his hand on Eponine’s ass. Not that he’s complaining.

They finally snake their way to the back of the bar, Combeferre keeping his hands somewhere on Eponine the entire time. He doesn’t let himself think about how quickly he gets used to doing so.

Eponine stops in front of a doorway, a row of old wooden beads hanging in the threshold, acting as the only line of privacy. She peers into the room, her brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, she takes a step back until she is flush against Combeferre’s front. He hopes she can’t feel how his heart is pounding in his chest. She gestures with her fingers and Combeferre leans down until his ear is level to Eponine’s mouth. He is much taller than her - much taller than most people - so it’s an awkward bend.

“Wait here,” she says, her voice low and serious.

“You sure?” Combeferre asks in return.

“I’m sure.”

Eponine kisses his jaw then. It’s quick and chaste, almost as if it was on accident. Combeferre feels himself smile as Eponine disappears through the beads. He stands there for a while near the opening of the back room, his body turned away from most of the other bar-goers, and texts Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

_I seem to be in a situation_. He presses send.

E: Are you okay?

Courf: ooooh what kind of sitch????

_Well, I’m currently at a bar somewhere near Chinatown pretending to be Eponine’s boyfriend, _he writes back.

E: What...does that mean?

Courf: ?????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!

_I don’t even know, honestly. She needed to speak to Montparnasse and needed protection while she did so...I guess_.

E: She needed protection? From Montparnasse?

_No. The other creeps at the bar._

Courf: ¡Jesucristo!

Courf: This lot is going to be the death of us!

Courf: Each of us, I say!

_She’s been in there talking to him for a while. Do you think I should check on her? _

E: Didn’t she literally ask you there to protect her?

_Fuck. _

Combeferre’s worry increases incrementally as more time passes with Eponine no one where to be found. Combeferre moves closer to the beaded entrance to the back room, pulling some strands to the side with two fingers. He peers inside and at first, there is no sight of Eponine. Panic flares in Combeferre’s chest suddenly, and he steps fully into the room, the beads clattering around him. Almost immediately, there is a hand slamming hard on his chest, causing Combeferre to stagger backwards.

“Who are you?”

“I’m just looking for Eponine,” he answers, glancing over the man’s shoulder. He finally sees her in the corner with Montparnasse, but he has to squint through the heavy smoke to be sure it’s them. Combeferre catches money being exchanged between the two of them before his attention is pulled elsewhere as the man standing in front of him shoves him - his hands colliding with Combeferre’s shoulders hard.

“Hey man!” Combeferre says, loud enough to surprise even himself.

The room erupts all at once. Several other men - too many to count - come rushing toward Combeferre. He instinctually extends his arms out in front of him, attempting to put distance between himself and the others.

“Woah, woah, woah,” he says, trying to keep the situation calm. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eponine look over, her eyes wide.

The last thing he remembers before blacking out is a huge fist hurtling toward his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked my Graceland reference :)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first foray into smut writing. It's sub-par. Sorry in advance.

“Jehan, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am you had to find out that way. I really was going to tell you when it was right and I was sure, and then Enjolras...just...I could kill him honestly. I just-”

“Shh….” Jehan whispers, placing his hands on either side of Courfeyrac’s face. They’re at Jehan’s house sitting on the edge of the bed in his room. No one else was home when they got there, thankfully. Jehan was sure they would have noticed something was wrong had they been, and that was not a conversation he wanted to have just yet. “I don’t want to talk anymore.” It’s only as he says it out loud, Jehan realizes how true that statement is. He’s tired of talking. Tired of trying to explain, to understand, to communicate his feelings to people whose brains aren’t full of...well, _full_. He leans forward and kisses Courfeyrac deeply, moving to crawl into his lap, straddling his waist. They stay like that for a few moments, kissing lazily, until Jehan starts grinding his hips down against Courfeyrac’s and sliding his tongue in his boyfriend’s mouth. It’s wet and intoxicating and just a little desperate, the way Jehan kisses him, curling his fingers into Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac hums in surprise and slides his hands up the back of Jehan’s shirt.

“Take off your clothes,” Jehan mumbles, his mouth still smashed against Courfeyrac’s. Their teeth clash as he goes back in for another kiss, this one even hotter and more hurried than before. By now, their breath is coming fast, hot and loud, and it’s the only sound heard in Jehan’s small bedroom. Jehan can feel himself shaking a little, and he hopes Courfeyrac doesn’t notice. He moves from his boyfriend’s lap long enough for him to strip down to nothing. Jehan watches with hooded eyes as he does so, reveling in the way Courfeyrac’s skin looks in the little bit of light streaming through Jehan’s broken blinds.

He’s sprawled out with Jehan nestled between his thighs. Dark, coarse hair covers his forearms, legs, and chest - just one of the things Jehan finds so sexy about him. His cock is pink and pretty, surrounded by curly black hair, and it bobs against his stomach as he props himself up on his elbows.

_He is so beautiful_, he thinks, as Courfeyrac gives him a funny look.

“What is it?” he asks, his body moving with each heavy breath. “Are you alright?”

Jehan practically tackles Courfeyrac into the mattress in an effort to slam their lips together. Jehan kisses Courfeyrac everywhere he can reach, mouthing at his ears, his collarbones, all the way down to his hips. Courfeyrac is making sweet, little sounds - his body practically writhing underneath Jehan. Jehan ignores his boyfriend’s cock, instead he places soft kisses all over his stomach and thighs, Courfeyrac coming more undone by the second. He moans loudly when he finally does wrap his hand around the base, and Jehan bites back a grin. He slides his tongue along the length of Courfeyrac’s cock - hard and hot. He licks at his slit, looking up at him through his lashes. Courfeyrac is propped up on his elbows, watching Jehan intently, his mouth parted slightly and his eyes dark with want.

Slowly, Jehan takes Courfeyrac’s cock into his mouth fully, never taking his eyes off his boyfriend. Courfeyrac lets out a whine, his head dropping back in ecstasy. Jehan is still fully clothed, and there’s something really sexy about that while he watches his hot, naked boyfriend panting under his touch. Jehan starts sucking his cock with enthusiasm, bobbing his head up and down quickly. He can feel Courfeyrac’s cock tense up and twitch in his mouth, and Jehan knows he’s close already.

“Fuck, baby,” Courfeyrac moans, reaching down and carding his fingers through Jehan’s hair, his nails scraping his scalp. “I’m so…”

Jehan stops before he can say any more, his lips make an obscene popping noise as they slide off the head of Courfeyrac’s cock. He glances up at his boyfriend - who looks completely ruined - and bites his lip.

“Baby,” Courfeyrac breathes, reaching out for Jehan to come closer. Instead, Jehan slides out of bed and stands near the edge. He starts undressing, being careful to remove each item slowly - deliberate - and doesn’t take his eyes off his boyfriend the entire time. Courfeyrac wraps his hand lightly around himself as he watches, his eyes roaming over every inch of Jehan’s body. In this moment, he should feel vulnerable, exposed, nervous. He should feel all of those things, but right now, as he watches Courfeyrac watch him, all he feels is love. Courfeyrac looks at him like he’s a masterpiece, like he can’t believe he’s even real. Jehan has never had anyone look at him like that before - not until Courfeyrac. Jehan doubts he’ll ever have this again after he’s gone.

He decides to enjoy it while it lasts.

“You are so sexy,” Courfeyrac practically whispers, his eyes never leaving Jehan’s body. He needs Courfeyrac to fuck him - needs it more he’s ever needed anything in his life. He drops onto his hands and knees at the foot of the bed and crawls slowly toward where Courfeyrac is half-leaning against the headboard. Courfeyrac surges forward, taking Jehan’s face in his big hands and pulling their lips together. “I love you,” he mumbles against the side of Jehan’s mouth.

“Please,” Jehan begs. “Please...fuck me.” Courfeyrac’s lip quirk slightly, and he makes quick work of flipping them around so Jehan’s face is pressed against the pillow. Courfeyrac reaches out and grabs Jehan’s ass in his hands, whispers almost reverently, “God, look at you.”

Courfeyrac spends less time than he normally would opening Jehan up with his fingers, quickly moving from one to two to three as Jehan moans underneath him. “Please,” he whines, “Please, I need you - need you inside me, please…” Finally, Courfeyrac lines himself up and pushes his cock inside him, and Jehan sees stars. Courfeyrac doesn’t give him much time to adjust before he’s really fucking him, his hips slamming forward quickly, and it feels so fucking good, and Jehan feels so fucking full.

“Fuck, Jehan,” Courfeyrac is muttering between grunts and moans. “Fuck, baby. So good, baby. You’re so good, Jehan…” Courfeyrac folds his body against Jehan’s, biting into his shoulder. Courfeyrac's hips begin to stutter and Jehan cranes his neck to slam their lips together as Courfeyrac comes, his body tensing and twitching above him. Jehan wraps a hand around his own cock and strokes himself - tight and fast - and within seconds he’s following Courfeyrac, coming hard all over the sheets.

It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s crying.

He collapses into the bed, Courfeyrac still half on top of him.

“Baby?” Courfeyrac voice comes breathy and worried in his ear. “Are you okay?”

Jehan shakes his head, sobs wracking his body. He burrows himself further into Courfeyrac’s arms.

“Oh, baby…” Courfeyrac whispers. wrapping his arms tightly around Jehan. He kisses his shoulder a few times.

Jehan’s mind is racing. He hasn’t been able to get rid of this same thought since Enjolras let slip that Courfeyrac was leaving - the thought that Jehan was going to die alone. Just like his mother. His brain keeps repeating it over and over and over, the thought becoming more consuming by the second. He had hoped that the sex would distract him, but if anything, it’s made the thoughts worse now - more intense and more frightening. Feeling Courfeyrac inside him - being all-consumed by his scent, his touch, his breath...

_I can’t lose this_, Jehan thinks, tears still running down his face, leaving wet droplets on the pillowcase. _I can’t lose him. I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to die_-

“I feel…” Courfeyrac starts, tickling his fingertips down Jehan’s arm, leaving behind goosebumps. “Your soft skin. _God - how is it always so soft_?”

“I smell…” Courfeyrac pauses, tucking his nose into Jehan’s undoubtedly messy hair. “Your lavender scented shampoo.”

It doesn’t take long for Jehan to realize what Courfeyrac is doing, and he lays there, still as possible, listening. Breathing. Grounding.

“I hear…you moaning still, in my head. I hear you begging for me.” Courfeyrac drops his voice low here, his lips ghosting the back of Jehan’s neck. A chill runs down Jehan’s spine.

“I taste…” Courfeyrac gently guides Jehan so he’s rolled onto his back, his face tilted toward Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac kisses him, sweet and soft, his lips lingering there for a few breaths. “Your sweet lips.” Jehan feels himself smile. He’s not crying anymore, Courfeyrac doing an excellent job at helping Jehan come back to himself, to get out of his own head.

“I see...the love of my life.” Courfeyrac presses his forehead against Jehan’s, their hot breath on each other’s faces. Jehan closes his eyes, allowing himself a few moments to enjoy it. This...simple existence with Courfeyrac. This easy way of being with one another, warm and pliant from sex. In love.

“Come with me,” Courfeyrac whispers.

Jehan’s eye snap open. “What?”

“Come with me,” Courfeyrac repeats, this time his voice at a normal level. “Come with me to California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for Courf being a supportive bf and utilizing grounding techniques Jehan has taught him <3


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild Violence, Mentions of Blood and Stitches (not gory!)

Combeferre comes to seconds later, finding himself on the ground. “Fuck,” he groans, rolling over onto his back. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, his hand raising to hold his left one. He’s in too much pain to fully register the commotion going on above him. His ears are ringing loudly, but Combeferre thinks he can still hear Eponine’s voice somewhere above him._ That’s good_, he thinks, groggy. _That’s good. She’s okay. Eponine is_-

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she’s saying over and over. Combeferre feels her kneel down next to him, placing her hands gingerly on his stomach. “Ferre! Oh my god, oh my god, Ferre!”

He feels his face swelling rapidly, feels blood trickling down from his brow bone. He blinks to try and keep it out of his eye. His head still feels fuzzy and the little he can see out if his good eye is blurry at best.

“God dammit, Babet!” he hears a voice yell - Montparnasse’s maybe? - but it sounds distant to his ears.

“Mont! Mont! Help me!” Eponine yells loudly, causing Combeferre to flinch. Seconds later, Montparnasse appears. Though Combeferre has only seen Montparnasse once before, he knows it’s him. Montparnasse is not someone whose face is easily forgotten. “Help me get him up,” she says, breathing hard and fast. With Eponine and Montparnasse’s help, Combeferre rises to his feet.

“You can take my car,” Montparnasse says, and Combeferre watches as he digs in his pocket for his keys. Eponine takes them from him without a word.

Combeferre follows her out the back exit of the bar, one hand covering his bleeding face and the other in her hand. Once they’re seated in the car, Eponine starts talking, tripping over her words in an apparent effort to get them out as fast as possible.

“Ferre, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she’s saying. “I am so sorry, this is all my fault, I’m so sor-”

“I’ve never been hit before,” Combeferre interrupts.

“What?”

“I’ve never been hit before,” Combeferre repeats, unsure why he's even sharing this. He thinks he might be in shock.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Eponine says, looking over at him, her face etched with worry. She turns back to the road, pulling out her cellphone as she does. “Hey! Are you guys home?” she asks whomever has answered. There’s a pause. “Great! Me and Ferre are on our way - see you soon!”

“Who was that?” Combeferre asks, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. His head is pounding. He’s honestly surprised just how badly getting punched in the face hurts. _I mean, you see it in movies all the time and people act a-okay afterwards_, Combeferre thinks. _Complete bullshit._ It feels a little like his face has split open and his brain is leaking out.

“Joly.” Combeferre hums in acknowledgment before kicking his feet up onto the dash and reclining the front seat as far back as it will go. Cracking his good eye open, he watches Eponine. She still looks a little frantic as she bites the fingernails on one hand. Her eyes keep flicking over to Combeferre’s side of the car, and she’s gripping the steering wheel so hard her hand is shaking. Combeferre closes his eye once more and lays his arm flat on the center console, his palm facing up. An offer. A few beats later, he feels Eponine’s fingers thread through his own.

“Well, the good news is - nothing’s broken,” Joly says as he pokes gingerly at Combeferre’s swollen face. Combeferre hisses at the pain. They’re at Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s apartment now, at a rare time when all three of them are home. Combeferre feels a little bad to be interrupting them like this.

“And the bad news?” Eponine asks.

“He’ll probably have a nice shiner for the next couple of weeks,” Joly says, matter-of-fact. He turns to Combeferre and adds, “You also need a few stitches. I’ll go get my suture kit.”

Combeferre groans loudly as Muschietta walks out of the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas and a mug of tea, steam billowing out of it in waspy tendrils. He takes the tea gratefully, and Musichetta stands over him, runs the back of her hand along his face gently before placing the frozen peas over his eye. Combeferre smiles at her - already feeling a little better. Musichetta has a very nurturing way about her and right now, Combeferre wants to be nurtured dammit.

“So, tell me again how this happened?” she asks, her voice sweet but her face one of mild concern.

“I told you, I didn’t follow instructions,” Combeferre answers, chucking humorlessly.

“He was defending my honor,” Eponine adds with a wink. “It was pretty badass, actually. He took one hell of a punch.”

Joly comes back into the room then, holding his suture kit along with some latex gloves and a surgical mask. “Eponine, grab that lamp,” he tells her as he prepares to stitch up Combeferre.

“You’ve done this before...right?” Combeferre asks, warily. Musichetta - who is still standing over him, protective - squeezes his hand.

“I’m a surgical intern,” Joly says from behind his mask, rolling his eyes. “All I do is sutures.”

Combeferre is reclined in the old Lay-Z Boy Bossuet demanded he be allowed to keep from his days at university. The lamp that Eponine dragged over from the corner is positioned right above his face and Joly is peering down at him, looking very serious.

“Okay, all I have is some numbing gel so this may...hurt a bit.” If Combeferre squeezes Musichetta’s hand a little harder at that...well, that’s just no ones business is it? “Ready?” Joly asks and Combeferre nods. Joly is mere seconds away from sticking a needle in Combeferre’s face right as Courfeyrac bursts through the door.

“What the HELL is going on!?” he practically screeches.

“Jesus Christ, Courf!” Combeferre yells back just as Joly pulls the mask off his face.

“I cannot work in these conditions!” he says, storming off into kitchen.

“What the hell did you to do him?!” Courfeyrac is staring at Eponine, his eyes wild.

“Me?!” Eponine yells back. “I didn’t do...this!” She gestures to where Combeferre is laying in the recliner, still very much un-stitched.

“How did you even know something happened?” Combeferre asks Courfeyrac. His friend manages to tear his eyes away from where he’s glaring at Eponine, jaw clenched.

“Bossuet texted us.”

At that, Bossuet comes tumbling out of the bathroom, almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment. “I’m sorry, Ferre! Eponine had sent us a message earlier before you got here and I...accidentally answered in the ABC group chat.” Bossuet was wringing his hands together, looking very guilty and very sorry.

“Great, so everyone knows?” Eponine asks, plopping herself down on the couch.

“What? Were you going to try to keep it a secret?” Courfeyrac asks sarcastically, cocking his head to the side in a way that always means he’s pissed off. “I mean, how could you? Look at him! He’s permanently disfigured!”

“Okay-” Combeferre tries interject - he can see both Eponine and Courfeyrac getting angrier by the second, and he really doesn’t need another fight on his hands.

“He would have minimal scarring if you all would calm the fuck down and let me stitch him up!” Joly says, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of wine. He shoves it at Courfeyrac’s chest and cocks his head toward the couch. “Sit down.” Courfeyrac does as he’s told, clutching the bottle of wine close to his body, and sits himself down on the opposite end of the couch from Eponine. He takes a swig, and pointedly does not pass it to her.

“Can we please get this over with?” Combeferre sighs. There’s a knock at the door then, and the entire room collectively groans. “It’s Enj,” Courfeyrac murmurs, getting up to answer the door.

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks without preamble, and Combeferre raises his hand in greeting.

“We have to be quiet while Joly works,” he hears Courfeyrac mumble to Enjolras, pulling him over to the couch so he can fill him quietly.

About ten minutes later Joly is finished. Combeferre only ended up needing three stitches along his left eyebrow where the skin had split open a little. He drops some pills in Combeferre’s hand, saying, “Here - for the pain.”

“How does it look?” Combeferre jokes, rolling his head to the side to look at Eponine, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac where they’re seated on the couch.

“Okay - so what the hell happened?!” Courfeyrac asks again, jumping up from the couch, looking a little manic. The wine was apparently ineffective at keeping him calm.

“Courf-”

“No!” Courfeyrac yells, startling Combeferre slightly. “Don’t you dare dismiss me. I’m not just being ol’ silly, melodramatic Courfeyrac. I’m being serious. I want to know what happened.” Combeferre’s eyes flick to Eponine’s briefly, but it’s apparently long enough for Courfeyrac to catch. “Okay then. Are you going to tell us, Eponine? How did this happen?”

“We were at a bar, I was looking for Eponine, some dude got the wrong impression, I guess,” Combeferre says, his voice low.

“What do you mean ‘wrong impression?’” Musichetta asks from where she’s sharing the loveseat with Bossuet.

“Okay look,” Courfeyrac says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Eponine, obviously this has something to do with you. Combeferre texted us while he was there.” At this, Eponine looks over at him, hurt darkening her face. “And whatever shit you’ve gotten Ferre into-”

“I didn’t…” Eponine trails off, looking between Courfeyrac and Combeferre helplessly. Combeferre knows he should speak up, but in that moment he can’t think of a single thing to say, his head is pounding, and he really just wants to crawl into his bed and not emerge for at least 12 hours. “You know what? Forget it. I gotta go.”

“You’re leaving?!” Courfeyrac asks incredulously, his mouth hanging open slightly.

“Yeah, Courf, I’m leaving,” she says, opening the door. “See ya, Ferre,” she adds. She doesn’t turn around to look at him, and Combeferre takes that as a bad sign.

“Come on, Courf,” Combeferre says. He puts the peas back onto his eye. He’s done talking.

“How have I done something wrong here?” Courfeyrac asks, looking at Enjolras for backup.

“We’re all as lost as you are, Courfeyrac,” he replies.

“Yep,” Combeferre adds, his voice sounding exhausted. “We sure are.”


	6. Six

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Uh, welcome home, sweetheart," Jehan says, watching in amusement as Grantaire shuffles into the kitchen, tossing his keys onto the countertop near the microwave.

Jehan is sitting at the kitchen table, his notebook open in front of him. He was attempting to write, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Courfeyrac and his proposal. He’d been turning the thought over and over in his head since Courfeyrac left a little over an hour ago, but he was unfortunately getting nowhere close to having an answer for him. It was an impossible decision, really. One Jehan wasn’t sure he would ever be able to make.

"Oh, sorry Prouvaire. Rough day,” Grantaire mutters, poking around in the fridge for something to drink, triumphantly retreating with a beer after a few seconds of searching.

“What's wrong?” Jehan asks, closing his notebook in concern.

“Have any of you checked your phones?” Eponine says as she walks through the front door as well, looking exhausted and sounding pissed off, and _was that blood on her shirt_? “Are the other boys home?” she asks before anyone can answer her. “Baz! Feuilly!”

“What’s going on?” Jehan asks, his eyes flicking between Grantaire and Eponine. His mind is already starting to come up with a whole slew of things that could be wrong, and really - _was that blood_? Grantaire sits down next to him at the table, moving his chair so it’s practically touching Jehan’s own and lazily throws an arm around his shoulders. Jehan is grateful for the touch.

Eponine moves to stand by the window, pulling a cigarette out of the pack from the junk drawer and lighting it. She tosses the pack to Grantaire, who catches it easily and pulls out his own. A few moments later, Jehan hears Bahorel and Feuilly’s feet pound up the basement steps and they tumble into the kitchen, shoving each other playfully.

“Well, hello family!” Bahorel says cheerfully, obviously excited to see everyone in the same place at the same time. His smile falters, though, upon seeing Eponine, Grantaire, and Jehan’s subdued expressions. “Why do you all look like that?”

Feuilly walks over to where Eponine is leaning against the window and gestures for her cigarette. “Is that blood?” he demands suddenly, and Jehan is flooded with relief that someone else noticed. He was having trouble finding his voice, his mind too crowded with other thoughts.

“Have any of you checked your phones?” Eponine asks again instead of answering and everyone mumbles their dissent. She groans at that, running her hands over her face roughly, leaving them there as the next words practically fall out of her mouth. “Babet punched Combeferre in the face.”

There is silence for several moments, as the boys all look between one another in confusion. It’s Grantaire who speaks first. “What?!” It comes out breathy, and is followed by shocked laughter.

“It isn’t funny!” Eponine yells, finally pulling her hands away from her face. Even as she says the words, her own mouth is betraying her, a smile dancing on her lips. Everyone starts in earnest then, Eponine covering her mouth with one hand as her shoulders shake with laughter. “Stop it, guys!”

“How the hell did that happen?” Feuilly asks through his own chuckles.

“It’s a long story,” Eponine groans, tossing her cigarette out the open window and hopping up on the counter where Bahorel is already perched. She leans her head against his arm, saying, “I had to meet up with Montparnasse and there was a misunderstanding and...I don’t know.”

“Montparnasse?” Feuilly asks, trying to sound casual but Jehan can see the tension in his body immediately.

“Wait, so do Enjolras and Courfeyrac know?” Grantaire asks with a laugh, taking a swig of his beer.

“Yes,” Eponine mutters, her face pulling into a frown. “They hate me now, by the way. I’m pretty sure your boyfriend thinks I’m a piece of trash who hangs around with wanted felons for fun.” She looks at Jehan when she says the last sentence and he snorts, imagining the reaction Courfeyrac must have had.

“If the shoe fits,” Grantaire mutters, and Eponine throws a dish towel at him.

“Well is he okay?” Jehan asks, thinking he should really call Courfeyrac. He doesn’t think he can until he has an answer for him though.

“He’s fine. Joly had to stitch him up, but he’s going to be fine.” Jehan nods to himself, trying to put that worry from his mind to focus on the next one. “Taire, are you okay?” He turns to look at Grantaire next to him, leaning away so he could see his face fully. “He said he had a rough day,” he explains to the others.

“So you know how I had to go in early to the bar today? Well, I figured it was to do inventory or we were getting a new menu item or some shit, but instead my boss decided to surprise me with a fuckin' new hire.”

“What does that have to do with you?"

“He's gonna bartend! I had to fucking train him. I signed up to work full time, not to share half of my hours with a goddamn dudebro from New Jersey who wants the job because, and I quote, 'chicks dig mixologists, bro!’”

“I think I may throw up,” Jehan says, making a face of utter disgust.

"Tell me about it."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Find a second job, I guess! What else can I do?"

All of a sudden, Jehan can’t hold it in any longer. The rest of them are continuing the conversation without him, tossing ideas of potential jobs back and forth, Grantaire grumbling unhappily the whole time. “Courfeyrac is moving to California,” he blurts out. Suddenly, all eyes turn to focus on him. Jehan can’t make himself look up from the table.

“What?” Feuilly asks.

“Courfeyrac...he’s moving to California after graduation.”

“Oh love, I’m so sorry. Does this mean you guys are breaking up or…?” Eponine asks, hopping down from the countertop and taking the seat on the other side of him. She reaches out and places her hand over the top of Jehan’s own.

“Well,” Jehan begins, looking between Grantaire and Eponine anxiously. They were looking at him with such sadness, like the thought of him going with Courfeyrac never occurred to them. The only logical solution in their minds was that he and Courfeyrac would break up, and well - is that the only solution? It feels like Jehan isn’t sure about anything anymore.

“He asked me to go with him.” Jehan’s words are met with silence.

“Well, you said no...right?” Eponine asks after a few moments. Her eyebrows are pulled close together, and her eyes are darting back and forth between Jehan’s.

“I haven’t given him an answer yet,” Jehan says softly, turning away from Eponine’s stare to look at their clasped hands. Eponine pulls hers away at that, sitting up straight in her chair. Out of the corner of his eye, Jehan sees Eponine looking between the rest of the boys, incredulous, as if imploring them to say something to support her. None of them meet her eye.

“Well, you can’t go,” Eponine says resolutely, like she can’t let her mind stay on this idea any longer. She laughs, as if to say, _isn’t that obvious?_

“Ep,” Grantaire speaks up at that, finally looking over from where he was staring at the front door. “Jehan’s an adult. He...he can make his own choices.”

“I know that,” she says sharply, giving Grantaire a look like she wants to throttle him. “We’re your family, Jehan,” Eponine says, softer now, her eyes boring into the side of Jehan’s face.

He’s still looking at the table, his mind is reeling, and this conversation is rapidly becoming too much. It’s a miracle that Jehan can even speak when he says, “Courfeyrac is my family too.” He finally finds the courage to look over at Eponine and her face is so clouded with hurt it makes Jehan feel sick. Eponine looks at him like she wants to say something, but she clenches her jaw instead and clears her throat. Without another word, she stands and leaves the kitchen, heading toward her bedroom.

“Eponine,” Jehan says, moving to stand but Grantaire touches his arm softly.

“I think we should just give her some space,” he says, softly. Jehan simply nods. The four of them sit together in silence for a while, Jehan feeling this overwhelming rush of guilt. He knows exactly how Eponine is feeling right now and he hates more than anything being the cause.

It’s Bahorel who speaks first. “You guys wanna play Spades?”

Jehan crumbles in relief, his eyes welling up with tears, and he nods silently, eagerly. Grantaire reaches out and squeezes the spot between his neck and shoulder, giving him a small smile.

“I’ll get a deck,” Feuilly says, leaving the room in search of cards.

“Okay, but I’m not partnering with Bahorel,” Grantaire laughs easily, the tension in the room lifting insurmountably. Bahorel gives him an affronted look, but before he can say anything, Grantaire chuckles, “You cheat and still manage to suck ass.”

“Just for that, Jehan and I are going to obliterate you, ya piece of shit,” he replies, turning around the kitchen chair opposite Jehan and straddling it. Jehan finds himself smiling, his heart practically exploding in his chest with how much he loves these people.

His family.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Description of Mild Injury, Brief Mention of Past Character Death(s)

Combeferre sleeps when he finally arrives home from Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s apartment. He was stuck there for close to two hours after Eponine had left, being bombarded with questions, comments, and concerns from Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Plus Joly wanted to keep him “for observation” for a while to make sure his swelling didn’t get worse and there was for sure no sign of a concussion.

The novelty of the situation wore off quickly, and Combeferre eventually told them he was exhausted and done talking about it. His tone must have implied that it was not up for debate because they left it alone after that, and Combeferre was finally allowed to go home.

Now, he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling with his good eye, his face throbbing dully. The meds Joly gave him were definitely helping to relieve most of the sharp, stabbing pain that had been afflicting him hours prior, but that achy feeling was still there.

Even still, all he could think about was Eponine. _Why did she need to see Montparnasse and why was she giving him money?_ he kept wondering, his brain immediately jumping to the worst conclusions. Outside, the moon is shining brightly and Combeferre can faintly hear his neighbor’s music flowing in through the open window. It’s a night like any other, yet he feels like his whole world has shifted slightly. He wonders, as he has been for the last 24 hours, how his life has suddenly gotten so...fucking weird. He wasn’t used to this - to not feeling fully in control of himself. Around Eponine, Combeferre flounders. He stops being sure of himself, unable to understand most of his own thoughts and feelings. His mind - which was normally a disciplined machine, able to sift through information with ease and eject thoughts that he deemed to be unproductive or unpleasant - turns into a useless lump of flesh unable to perform even the most basic of human interaction. It’s infuriating. It’s both unproductive _and_ unpleasant, _yet here he is._

He pulls out his phone, shooting off a text before he can think about it too deeply. _Is it weird that I feel just a little bit cooler with this black eye?_ he writes.

_Nah. I get it._ Eponine writes back.

Then, _And chicks dig it._

Before he can reply, she’s sending another one.

_Can I come over?_

Combeferre feels himself go hot at the question. Eponine had only been to his apartment a handful of times and never when it was just the two of them.

_Having a shit day, _she sends a few seconds later.

_Of course you can._

A little over an hour later, there’s a knock at his door. He gets out of bed, appraising himself in the full length mirror mounted on the back of his bedroom door. It's cracked from the time Courfeyrac used his bedroom for sex purposes, and Combeferre didn’t want to hear any more about that,_ thank you very much._ As he stares at his reflection, Combeferre knows he’s probably seen better days. Of course, there is the swollen, ugly bruise that has started to turn a deep purple around his eye. The inner corner of his eye is bright red where a blood vessel had burst, and not to mention, there’s the stitches. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, and he briefly considers changing before thinking better of it. It seemed weirder for him to be fully dressed in his own home at 10:30 at night after being punched in the face. _Right?_

“I brought ice cream,” Eponine announces as soon as Combeferre opens the door. She steps in easily, not waiting to be invited, and breezes by him, heading immediately toward the living room. She seems on edge, a strange, tense energy radiating from her as she sits on the couch and kicks off her shoes. “Oh, can you get spoons?” she asks, and it’s sudden, nervous. When she looks at Combeferre fully, her face twists into a pained expression upon seeing his eye, but she schools herself, hiding it just as quick. She smirks slightly before looking away and says, “You do look a lot cooler.”

Combeferre chuckles and goes to the kitchen to fetch some spoons, surprised to find not one, but actually _two_ clean ones in the silverware drawer. He also grabs an opened bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses, just in case. When he returns, Eponine has emptied the plastic bag she’d brought, two pints of Ben & Jerry’s sitting on the coffee table. She hasn’t yet noticed Combeferre’s presence, so he takes the opportunity to study her for a moment. She’s facing away from him, bent down slightly to inspect Combeferre’s rather vast DVD collection. Her cropped hair is just grazing the tops of her ears, and Combeferre admires the silver piercings that he had not noticed before. She’s wearing jeans and an NYU crewneck sweatshirt, her sneakers still sitting where she had abandoned them earlier.

“See anything you like?” he asks and she jumps slightly. “Sorry.”

“You have quite the collection,” she answers, not looking away from the DVDs. “Never paid attention before.”

“I’m a bit of a movie buff,” Combeferre answers. “Do you want to watch something?”

“The Devil Wears Prada?” Eponine asks wryly, finally turning to face Combeferre, displaying the DVD for him to see.

“It’s an excellent film,” Combeferre says. “Our majesty Meryl Streep is in it.”

“All right,” Eponine says with a smile. “I'll give it a shot.”

Combeferre walks over to her, taking the DVD from her hand and replacing it with the spoons. He goes about getting it set up while Eponine sits down on the couch. By now, the condensation from the ice cream has created small rings of water on the coffee table. Eponine is staring at them, absentmindedly tapping the spoons against one another, soft _tink-tinks_ sounding through the otherwise silent apartment.

“So,” Eponine begins, abruptly quieting the spoons. “How are you feeling?”

Combeferre turns around with a shrug. Behind him, the DVD has started playing previews for upcoming releases. “I’m okay,” he mutters and sits down next to Eponine. “These lortabs are working their magic.”

Eponine smiles at him before turning toward the TV. A few moments pass where neither of them speak, watching the preview for an upcoming Cameron Diaz movie in not-quite uncomfortable silence. Eponine turns back to him, opening her mouth as if to speak before shutting it again. “Look, Ferre, I’m unbelievably sorry about today,” she hurries to say, her neck turning red under the collar of her shirt. He reaches out without thinking, resting his hand on Eponine’s arm in what’s meant as a comforting gesture. His skin ignites with the touch and he wonders if she can tell.

“It’s alright, Eponine,” he says seriously, looking her in the eyes. “You didn’t hit me. You’re not responsible for that man’s actions.” She looks at him for a long while, her expression as if she were studying something she didn’t quite understand. He feels nervous under the scrutiny, and he gives her arm a quick squeeze before moving his hand away and turning his attention back to the television. The DVD is now on the menu screen looping through a highlight reel. He presses play. A few moments later, KT Tunstall is singing her iconic song.

_Her face is a map of the world, is a map of the world _

“Do you want to smoke?” Eponine asks, pulling out her cigarettes.

_You can see she’s a beautiful girl, she’s a beautiful girl _

“No thanks,” he says with a smile. “You’re more than welcome to, though.”

“Thanks,” she says and pulls out a joint from her pack of Camels.

_And everything around her is a silver pool of light _

“Even if it wasn’t my fault, you still kind of took that punch for me,” she mutters, placing the joint between her lips and lighting it. She takes a long hit and blows it out with a cough. She says, “It was just cool of you, that’s all.” Eponine shrugs one shoulder, looking up at Combeferre, her eyes already becoming glassy.

_The people who surround her feel the benefit of it _

Combeferre opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything Eponine is kissing him.

_It makes you calm, she holds you captivated in her palm _

“Ow, ow, ow,” Combeferre says involuntarily, pulling away to cover his eye.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Eponine apologizes, grimacing at Combeferre’s pain.

“S’okay. Didn’t hurt that bad," he lies. It takes Combeferre a few seconds to register what happened. _Holy fuck,_ he thinks, his mind reeling. _She just kissed me. Eponine kissed me._

Eponine is still holding the joint, cloudy tendrils of smoke dancing between them.

Combeferre surprises even himself when he says, “Eponine, listen." She immediately looks scared and small. He hates that he’s caused that. “I like you. I really like you. But I don’t think you like me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, putting the joint out in the ashtray Combeferre keeps on his coffee table since most of his friends are, well, stoners.

“I just think - maybe - you’ve started to like me because you think I have this ‘other’ side of me, but I just - ” he stops, unsure how to explain what he means. He is so drained and his mind is so shot from the day he’s had. “I’m not this person.” He gestures toward his back eye. “I’m not tough or dangerous. Let’s be serious, I was scared shitless in that bar.” Eponine chuckles then, and Combeferre feels a little reassurance in that. “I’m just not that guy, Ep, and I don’t want you to convince yourself you’re attracted to me just because you think maybe I am that guy.”

“I don’t want you to be that guy,” Eponine replies. She laughs, adding, “My entire life, I’ve only ever had _that guy_. I don’t want that guy anymore. I...” And then she starts crying.

“Ep? What’s the matter?” Combeferre asks worriedly. He doesn’t know why but his eyes flick to the television, where Anne Hathaway is eating an onion bagel.

“Christ,” she mutters, mostly to herself. She laughs shakily and presses the palms of her hands to her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Combeferre,” she says as Combeferre looks on, confusion and worry pulling his eyebrows together. “I’m just a fucking mess lately, and for some god damn reason it’s all just piling on you.” She sniffles before continuing, “Everything just feels shitty, you know?”

In some ways, Combeferre reckons he does know. Wordlessly, he scoots over toward Eponine until they’re touching and pulls her into his chest. She goes easily, ducking her head down and pressing her face into his shirt. “I think Jehan’s going to leave,” she practically whispers. “And I can't breathe thinking I may be losing someone else.”

It takes Combeferre a few breaths to make sense of what she means. “You wouldn’t be losing him, though, Eponine. It’s not the same thing.” _As your brother dying_, is left unspoken. He kisses the top of her head before resting his cheek there. They sit like that for the rest of the night.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mention of Mental Illness; Mention of Past Character Death

Jehan thinks of death often. It is there, in his obsessions, constant and cruel and suffocating. Death is there in his ever-present past - like seeing ghosts wandering around out of the corner of his eye, vanishing as soon as he turns his head. Death is there in his relationship to others, invisible tethers tying him to the people around him, to their pain and vulnerabilities.

When the rest of them found Jehan, he was weighed down by the heavy, all-consuming burden of death. He’d just lost his mother to a brain aneurysm. She was 37 years old. Jehan was 16. She was practically a kid herself when she had Jehan, but she did the best she could and the two of them grew up together. His mother was a beautiful woman who loved to read Jehan poetry and make little crowns for him out of weeds from the garden. He misses her everyday.

Jehan refused to go into the foster care system, running away instead and living on the streets for three months before Grantaire and Bahorel found him outside a gay club, desperate and hungry and willing to do just about anything for somewhere to sleep. They asked him if he had a place to stay and before Jehan knew it, he had another family, another home, another life.

Jehan gently lifts Courfeyrac’s arm from where it’s curled around him, doing his best to avoid waking the other man up. Courfeyrac is usually a heavy sleeper and, luckily, tonight is no exception as Jehan slips out easily, padding barefoot around his room looking for his notebook. He finds it on the floor under a sweatshirt that Jehan always steals from Bahorel because it’s so big and he can curl his whole body inside it when he sits on the couch. He drops it back on the floor before thinking better of it and pulls it on over his head, the hem falling to the tops of his knees.

Jehan goes to the bathroom and catches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is a mess and he looks tired and Jehan has to look away from himself quickly, an anxious feeling settling in his chest. His hands are shaking a bit, so he opens the medicine cabinet to pull out two Ativan. He pads downstairs, making his way to the kitchen for a glass of water, his notebook tucked into the front pocket of Bahorel’s sweatshirt. He pours himself a glass from the faucet, searches the junk drawer for a pen, and sits down to write, not wanting to lose the thought he had while lying in bed with Courfeyrac.

_Your soul is tangled so tightly around my own that cutting you free would surely destroy us both_, he writes. 

Behind him, the hall light is turned on, soft footsteps coming from the back bedroom. _Eponine_.

It has been two days since Jehan told them about California, and he and Eponine haven’t really talked about it since. Jehan has been spending more time at Courfeyrac’s to avoid the confrontation, partly because he hates upsetting people and partly because he hasn’t made a choice yet. Besides, Eponine didn’t seem eager to address it either._ Until now_, Jehan supposes.

He turns to her and smiles as she comes in the room, wearing a large T-shirt that Jehan thinks he recognizes as Grantaire’s. But, honestly, who is he kidding? None of them exactly have their own clothes anymore, it’s more like a free for all for what’s clean at the time. “Can’t sleep?” he asks, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It reads 3:28 in green glowing letters.

“Nope. You either?” she replies, opening the fridge and pulling out Capri Sun. “Want one?” she asks and doesn’t wait for a response - doesn’t need one - before tossing one over to him.  
“Thanks,” Jehan answers, catching the juice and unwrapping the tiny yellow straw. “I can’t sleep either.”

Eponine sits down with him at the kitchen table, pulling her legs up to her chest. She’s sipping on her Capri Sun, her cheeks forming deep hollows on her face as she sucks on the straw. They’re silent for a moment, neither of them looking at each other. Eponine picks at her chipped black nail polish, and Jehan taps his pen against his notebook absentmindedly. “Whatcha got here?” Eponine asks suddenly, leaning forward to pull his notebook toward her to read. She does so quickly, the only words are the ones Jehan had written down just moments before. She looks up at Jehan, her fingers still pressed against the pages. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, simply looks at him carefully and chews on her bottom lip. Jehan is about to say something when Eponine leans forward and pulls him in for a hug. 

Jehan feels himself relax into the embrace, wrapping his arms around her in return and burying his face in her neck. 

When Eponine pulls away, her eyes are brimming with tears. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, squeezing Jehan’s hands in both of hers. “I know that I’ve been...holding pretty tight to you guys for a while now, and I’m sorry. I’ve just...been living with this _fear_ for the last six years, you know, and I thought, if I just held onto you boys - if I could just control this one part of my life - that we’d all be okay. But I know we can’t keep living in fear. I know Gav wouldn’t want that. Your mom...she wouldn’t want that for us. For you.” Eponine pulls her hands away and wipes at the tears that were starting to fall down her cheeks, and gives a watery laugh. “So, what I’m saying is - you have my blessing. For California. Not that you needed it, but.” She shrugs. 

Jehan pulls her into another hug, and whispers, “Thank you, Ep.” They pull away, and he continues, saying, “That really does mean a lot to me. I want you to know I haven’t made my decision yet, but...either way, it means a lot.” 

They sit there for a few moments, drinking their Capri-Suns in comfortable silence. It’s Eponine who speaks first. “I think I’m into Combeferre,” she says. 

Jehan didn’t know what he was expecting Eponine to say next but it definitely wasn’t that. “Ferre? Since when?!” Jehan asks eagerly, leaning his elbows against the table and tucking his hands under his chin.

“Since...now? I guess?” Eponine is smiling, bright and genuine, and it warms Jehan’s heart to see. “I don’t know. Marius is proposing so...I don’t know what the fuck to think about anything anymore, ya know?”

Jehan reaches out and squeezes Eponine’s knee. “Combeferre’s a great guy, Ep,” he says, ignoring the part about Marius. Anything Jehan has to say, Eponine already knows. “Plus, he’s moving about three hours away pretty soon. That’s a nice, solid distance to stave off your fear of commitment.”

Eponine laughs and shoves Jehan’s hand off her knee. “Fuck you,” she says playfully.

“What the fuck?” Jehan and Eponine both turn to see a very sleepy Grantaire standing in the doorway of his bedroom, which happens to be directly off the kitchen. 

“Sorry honey,” Eponine says, smiling in a way that means_ our bad_. Grantaire merely grumbles, walks over and sits down on the other side of Jehan. He immediately crosses his arms on the table and buries his face in them. 

“I was having a great dream,” he says. Or at least that’s what Jehan thinks he says - it’s difficult to understand him with his mouth muffled against his arms like they were. Jehan reaches out and starts twisting tiny braids into Grantaire’s curls. After only a few minutes, Grantaire starts snoring softly. 

“What’s stopping you?” Eponine asks then, and Jehan isn’t sure what she means. It must have shown on his face because she adds, “From going to California? From saying yes to Courf?”

“Well, leaving you guys for one,” Jehan says in a tone that implies that should’ve been obvious.

“No, no, no,” Eponine interrupts. “That’s thinking about other people. Forget me, forget everyone else. What do you want Jehan?”

Jehan is quiet for a few moments, and then he just...knows the answer - to the same question he’d been agonizing over days. “I want Courf,” Jehan says, as if it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world. “God, Ep, I really fucking love him, but I’m so scared. I’m scared to let myself want him this badly. It’s terrifying. I’m terrified he’s going to get tired of my OCD and PTSD and every other “D” I may have in the future. I’m terrified he’s going to realize he can do so much better than me. I’m terrified he’s going to die on me. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Eponine doesn’t say, “Courfeyrac isn’t going to die,” because she can’t promise that. If anyone understands that it’s Eponine and Jehan. Instead, she says, “Yes, you would. Even when it legitimately feels like you’re dying, you don’t actually do it. You would survive. And Courfeyrac isn’t going to get tired of you. He’s crazy about you, Prouvaire, and you know it. And he wants a life with you. You deserve to have that.”

Jehan feels tears well up in his eyes as he turns his head away from Eponine, starts running his fingers over the tiny braids in Grantaire’s hair. He’s too overcome with emotion to speak, but when he reaches out and tightly squeezes Eponine’s hand, he thinks she gets the message anyway. 

“Alright, I think I’m going to get sleeping beauty to bed,” Eponine says after a few moments of nothing but Grantaire’s steady breathing. She reaches out to scratch Grantaire’s scalp with her long nails, and he sighs in his sleep at the sensation. Jehan pushes his chair back to stand, the noise waking up Grantaire, who blinks owlishly at the light coming in from the hall. “Bed time, Taire,” Eponine says.

“One of you has to sleep with me,” Grantaire counters, matter of fact. His eyes are mostly closed as he slowly walks toward his bedroom. 

“I have Courf upstairs,” Jehan laughs, looking to Eponine, who simply rolls her eyes. 

“Fine,” she groans. “Come on, R, we’re sleeping in my bed.”

Grantaire smiles in response, and says, happily, “Mm...cuddles.” He follows Eponine, lazily throwing his arms over her shoulders. Eponine stumbles from the weight of him, and she laughs as she struggles to hold him upright. Jehan watches them retreat down the hall and disappear into Eponine’s room. The warm feeling spreading throughout his chest is the same feeling he knows he’ll have the second he goes upstairs to find Courfeyrac sprawled out in his bed, sound asleep.


	9. Nine

Friday morning, Combeferre wakes up to a massive headache and eight text messages from Enjolras. 

His face feels ten times worse than the day before, and he actually lets out a little yelp when he sees his eye in the mirror. The stitches look gross at this point and the edges of his black eye are beginning to turn a nasty yellow-ish green. He pads into the kitchen and starts making coffee, scrolling through Twitter and pointedly ignoring the messages from Enjolras. He’s exhausted and from what Combeferre glanced at when he woke up, he was using a lot of capital letters. Combeferre certainly did not have the patience for that without caffeine. 

After he’s downed some Advil and is pouring cup number two, Combeferre reads through the messages from Enjolras. He’d sent them to both himself and Courfeyrac, the first one reads, _I have something important to talk to you both about. Come over_. The remaining messages were Enjolras sending question marks every thirty minutes. 

Combeferre also has a message from Courfeyrac that just says, _Let me know when you’re heading that way_.

He texts them both back letting them know he’d be there within the hour, and heads toward the bathroom for the long, hot shower he deserves. 

About an hour later, Combeferre knocks on the door to Enjolras’s apartment, and waits for the other man to open it. When he does, he looks a little crazed, his blond hair is piled on top of his head in a messy knot, and he’s forgone his contacts for his glasses - round lenses with thin metal frames perched on the bridge of his nose. He smiles wide upon seeing Combeferre, hurrying him inside and shutting the door behind him. “Hey! Perfect timing-,” he says, sounding almost breathless. He cuts himself off upon seeing Combeferre’s face, his expression as if he just remembered that Combeferre was KO’d not 48 hours prior.

He kicks off his shoes by the door and follows Enjolras into the living room, where Courfeyrac has already claimed the armchair. Enjolras’s laptop is open on the coffee table and surrounded by stacks of papers, most of them covered in highlighter and adorned with scribbles in the margins.

When Courfeyrac sees him, he immediately jumps up to get a closer look at his face, he and Enjolras standing shoulder to shoulder in front of him. They both study him closely, their own faces scrunched up in worry.

“Stitches look good,” Courfeyrac mutters, as if either of them know anything about anything, and Enjolras hums his agreement. Combeferre rolls his eyes, starts to tell them that he’s fine, but Courfeyrac speaks first. “How’s your pain, honey?” he asks, and both he and Enjolras’s gazes flick upwards away from his bruises to meet Combeferre’s eyes. 

“A seven,” he says. “But I took some Advil.” Enjolras and Courfeyrac hum approvingly. “Okay, why am I here?” Combeferre asks, stepping around his friends to plop himself down on the couch. This seems to satisfy Enjolras, who reverts his attention back to the topic in question with a clap of his hands. Courfeyrac doesn’t look as convinced as he sits down next to Combeferre on the sofa.

“Right. So, I have a proposal for you both,” he begins, looking between his two best friends anxiously. “I want us to stage a sit in. On Wall Street. To protest corporate influence on our democracy and the ever increasing disparity in wealth across the nation.” It sounds like he’s rehearsed this, and where Enjolras is concerned, he most likely did. Combeferre chances a look at Courfeyrac, who gives him a slight shrug. “I’ve been doing research for the last few days. Did you know that between 1979 and 2007, the top earning 1 percent of Americans saw their after-tax-and-benefit incomes grow by an average of 275%, compared to around 40–60% for the lower 99 percent?

“Look at this - Forbes just released these numbers,” he continues, pulling out a report he must have printed off the internet. “The top 1% of the population owns 42.7% of our nation’s total wealth. The next 19% of Americans own 50.3%. That leaves the bottom 80% of people owning only _7%_ of wealth.” 

“Yeah, that’s pretty gross,” Courfeyrac agrees. 

“It’s reprehensible, is what it is,” Enjolras echoes. “And our families are part of the problem - the least we can do is use our privilege to try and change that.” 

“Okay,” Combeferre says, already on board. He (and the rest of the Friends of the ABC) are pretty much always on board with Enjolras and his plans. “So a sit in.” 

“Yes, a sit in,” Enjolras agrees firmly, his eyes lighting up in excitement already. “But we have to be willing to stick it out as long as it takes. And it can’t just be us - we need a big turnout or it won’t work.” 

“Okay…” Combeferre says, not entirely sure what Enjolras is getting at. “So what does that mean exactly?” 

“That means I need six months. If you guys can give me until September 1st, I think we can have a solid plan fleshed out and a decent following to join us. If we don’t have it ready by then, Courfeyrac goes to California and Combeferre goes to Baltimore. We forget about it.” 

“And what about you? What are you going to do?” Combeferre asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Enjolras says. “But for the first time, I’m not worried about it. I’ve got a good feeling about this guys. I think this could be it.” Combeferre looks at Courfeyrac and vice versa, each man engaging in one of their silent discussions that Enjolras hates so much. When they reach a conclusion it’s something along the lines of, _He may be finally losing but what the hell? One last hurrah?_

“We’re in,” Courfeyrac says and Enjolras positively beams.

“Let’s see the plan,” Combeferre adds, and Enjolras drops to his knees in front of his coffee table. He pulls open a document on his computer, where he’s already started a rough timeline for the next six months. 

“I’m making a fresh pot,” Courfeyrac says as he stands and walks toward Enjolras’s kitchen. “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.” 

Four hours later, they’ve polished off a second pot, and they finally have a pretty fleshed out plan for the sit-in and the campaign leading up to it. Combeferre is just finishing up the agenda for the next meeting when Courfeyrac stands suddenly, saying, “Okay, I’m over this. I’m gonna go have sex now.” 

“Me too,” Combeferre replied instantly, realizing his mistake the second it’s out of his mouth. Enjolras startled from where he was focused on reading over the list of things he needed to get done before the next ABC meeting, and Courfeyrac froze where he was pulling on his loafers. “I meant I’m over this not about the sex,” he says quickly. 

“Well, speaking of sex, Ferre have you told Enj about Eponine?” Courfeyrac asks, feigning innocence. 

“What about Eponine?” Enjolras asks instantly. 

“Uh, I hadn’t yet,” Combeferre says, shaking his head at Courfeyrac in a mixture of disbelief and amusement. 

Courfeyrac winks at him, calling over his shoulder as he leaves, “Toodles darlings!” 

“Is there something going on between you two?” Enjolras asks once the door closes behind their friend. He abandons his list in favor of pulling off his glasses to look at Combeferre.

“Maybe? I’ll update you once I know more,” he replies, and Enjolras laughs knowingly. 

“They certainly are complicated people,” Enjolras says then, looking down to pick as his nails. Combeferre doesn’t have ask to know he’s referring to Grantaire. It was something Enjolras did often - casually slipping him into conversation to the point it seemed almost involuntary. Like Grantaire is such a constant presence in his mind that he can’t help but mention him whenever possible.

“How are things with Grantaire?” Combeferre asks, keeping his words purposefully vague. He’s tried to have the Grantaire conversation many times in the past, but he and Courfeyrac both have given up at this point. It’s been almost a year since he and Grantaire broke up, and despite Enjolras’s insistence that he’s ‘over it,’ Combeferre remains unconvinced.

“The same, I guess,” Enjolras says, looking confused. “Why?” 

“It just seemed like you two snuck off together for a while the other night,” he replies with a shrug.

“Oh, that was nothing,” Enjolras answers with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That door was closed a long time ago, my friend.” 

“Yeah?” Combeferre asks, studying Enjolras closely. “Who closed it?” His friend looks at him helplessly then, and it’s apparent he doesn’t have an answer to that. Combeferre decides to let him off the hook, says, “If Courf and I leave, I don’t want it to be just you, E.” Enjolras just stares at his lap as Combeferre stands to pull on his jacket. He clasps Enjolras on the shoulder as he walks toward the door, “Maybe you should see if the door is locked before you give up.”


End file.
